Around the corner of the
radio station was the Circular Congregational Church. It's still there of
course -- different pastor though. At that time, the pastor was Doctor
Christian Barnhart. Sometime during the week, he would sit in his
office, microphone in hand, and record, non-stop, a fifteen minute sermon.
Then after its completion, he would walk the tape from his office to the
station to the waiting hands of the receptionist. She would eventually
place it with the Sunday Log (which were hourly sheets of paper that had a
listing of everything that was to be aired for each hour).

Jim Diamond/Bob Kight in 1963

My first day was on a Sunday.
So that it might move more smoothly, the boss was there to help me, if and
when I needed it. I was in the control room in charge of every sound that
was transmitted to the listening audience. The boss, Bob Mitchell,
was in and about the production room (an area right next door, separated
by a large double glass window). I could see him and he could see me.

Bob Mitchell

The time slowly approached
when I had to announce the good Doctor Barnhart and his fifteen minute
masterpiece. The music that I was using to fill the time before the
program faded. I turned on the mic and read the announcement for the
program. "At this time, WTMA presents Doctor Christian Barnhart of the
Circular Congressional Church." Then I started the tape. I actually said
"Congressional" instead of "Congregational". The mistake I made wasn't
even heard by my own ears. It didn't register yet.

The boss slowly walked
in, "What's the name of that Church again?" I looked at the card and
looked at Mitchell and replied, "The....Circular...Congregational Church?" With a
small smile on his face, he said, "That's what I thought you said."

Now either a small miracle
occurred by which the good doctor missed his "Wrong Introduction" or his
compassion was overflowing that morning because I never heard a word of
complaint from him. Needless to say, I never made THAT mistake again. But
it wasn't just a single mispronunciation that I remembered for the
past forty years, but the simple fact that no one's perfect and at that
point in his life, I had a longggggg way to go. But the Circular
Congressional, uh, Congregational Church pastor had still another
situation to deal with.

The weeks rolled by, and I learned to pronounce "better" (and other words
too). But TMA wasn't through with Doctor Barnhart. One of the most-used
pieces of equipment at a radio station back then was a handheld device
called a "bulk eraser." Its job was to erase an entire reel of tape in a
matter of seconds. )Normally a tape machine would only erase while it was
recording.) Another one of TMA's DJs was a guy named Johnny Day. Johnny
was as big as a bear and had a heart twice that size. He was always there
to do a little bit more.

One Monday morning Doctor Barnhart came by to
pick up his recording of the previous Sunday's show and Johnny was there to meet
him. "Here's your tape Doctor Barnhart, and you don't have to worry about
your recorder not erasing it. So that it'll be ready for recording your
next sermon, I erased it for you." Doctor Barnhart couldn't speak. It
wasn't because he was thankful. You see, he had been saving all of his
recordings for many years now. But Johnny didn't know this. This was the
first time that I had seen a pastor come "that" close to losing it.
Eventually he composed himself and took the "erased" tape back, mumbling
something under his breath.

The only good thing that came out of this
situation was that Johnny erased the tape, not me. You see, I too didn't
know that the good doctor saved all of his recordings. Johnny learned
something that day and so did I. Every time you do something for someone
else, think about it first, try to come up with the worst case scenario,
and then don't do it. It's a lot easier nowadays asking for
forgiveness than getting permission.

Back in 1963 one of the many places in Charleston that you might find any
car at any time was at one of the many drive-in restaurants. One of which
was known as the "Patio Drive-In Restaurant." Its claim to fame was that
periodically, a WTMA DJ would broadcast from there in a Plexiglas booth,
high above the parking area. There sat the DJ, talking on the air and
selling whatever the "Patio" people wanted to sell that night. A DJ named
Doug Randall was scheduled to be there on one particular Saturday evening.

Doug Randall

The setup was as follows: All that the DJ needed to bring was a radio to
listen to, plus a microphone and mixer. The DJ would have an hourly list
of the music that would be played at the radio station and between songs
give out other information on the air. I had been working weekends for
about three months and had just started working fulltime when most of the
schools were about to start up again. That last summer week would be
really hectic for most drive-in restaurant workers because every kid with
"wheels" would be there. Doug had many years of experience in this and was
about to "do Bob a favor". "How would you like to do the Patio this
weekend?" Doug asked. He explained to me what I needed to know and
said I'd even make $25. Now in 1963, you could almost make a down payment
on a home with $25. I was talked into it.

I got the equipment from TMA's engineer Harold and
was shown how to use it. I was ready. I had to be
on the air by 6 pm. I got there a little early - 4 pm - hooked everything
up, plugged it in, tested it, and called the station. "I'm all connected
up and ready to go." Everything was A-OK. The booth was about 6 feet by 6
feet and maybe 7 feet high. In it was a folding cardboard table and a
standard folding metal chair. The booth seemed to be well built, in spite
of the bad weather that it had to endure for so many years. The flooring
was a large piece of rusty steel decking.

I walked up and down the steel
stairs many times to talk with the manager and the waitresses about what
their specials were that night. The hours rolled by. I was ready, I was
really jazzed up. Sitting on the folding chair, high up in the air in the
booth that was all lit-up. The radio was just loud enough so that I could
hear what was going on, but far enough away from his own microphone as to
not give me any "feedback". (That's the high pitched squeal you sometimes
hear.)

Time just drifted by. I
introduced songs, did a few commercials and read a few requests. I started
feeling really relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. A great song was playing --
"Just One Look" by Doris Troy. I was soaking it all in and started to lean
back in the chair, unaware of the wet areas that the feet were resting on.
Back I tilted. Back. Back. A little more. THEN - I violently came up
against the laws of physics and my feet went flying up in the air.
Hitting the table. Tossing it and all the equipment up in the air. Until
the chair landed flat on the steel floor deck. Now, as I looked straight
up to the ceiling, I could see where all the water on the floor had been
coming from. Then all of a sudden I felt something in my back. A sudden
rush of -- PAIN. And before I could think about it, I heard myself say,
"SON-OF-A-BITCH"!

I suddenly realized that I had to get up and put
everything back together. I got up. Replaced the chair. Put the table back
up. Picked up the mixer and radio and just heard a hum or some static. "I'll
redial it to the right station in a few seconds. Where's the microphone?
Oh, here it is." I picked it up and put it next to the radio and heard the
familiar sound of -- FEEDBACK. The squeal tells me that the radio is still
set to WTMA and that the microphone is working and I'M ON THE AIR. But did
anyone hear my scream?

Quickly, my brain went into overdrive and I came up
with the following: "OK we're gonna send out that last song to a couple of
guys that I haven't seen for quite a while. I was looking down at the cars
and all of a sudden, there they were, and I just yelled out their names.
So guys, if you're still listening, I'm sending this next song to SONNY
and MITCH, here's Leslie Gore and 'It's My Party'." The DJ at the station
gets the cue, runs with it, and starts the song. Eventually the song
ends and once again to cover myself, I dedicated it again to SONNY and
MITCH.

For the next few moments I expected to see red lights flashing
(police cars used red lights back then), then see a dozen police cars come
flying in, ordering people to back out and leave, watching spotlights
cover the booth area, and dozens of police officers with guns drawn and
all directed at the booth I was in. (You see, back in 1963 if you were to
say what I had said ON THE AIR, that would probably be a Capital
Offense.) I was waiting for someone with a bullhorn to say, "Alright...you
up there...come out with your hands...over...your mouth!" But no police
cars arrived. Nothing happened. Nobody said anything to me about it. So
the worst part was not what happened, but what I thought MIGHT happen,
plus thinking about it for the next hour.

The next day at the station,
Doug Randall says, "You did a good job last night." And while walking
away Doug continues, "I used to know a couple guys named Sonny and Mitch
too."

That's been my secret for forty years now and I hope you've enjoyed
reading about it.